


Reset on the River

by jeweniper



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Death, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11193591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeweniper/pseuds/jeweniper
Summary: Lance has lived his whole life in this town, and accepts some circumstances as fact: History is told by word of mouth. He will never quite feel like he belongs. Their crops are dying, and no one can figure out why.Or maybe he can, assuming he convinces this ferryman to take him to the Land of the Dead.





	Reset on the River

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something in a fairy tale style, and I ended up with this! Hopefully you find it almost as interesting as I did. Not sure what else to say folks. Kudos/comments are always appreciated, klance is something I'm weak for, I confess.

_ Once upon a time, as these stories tend to go, there lived a boy. _

  
  


_ Or I suppose, two boys. _

 

_ And they grew up in their village beloved by all—so close it was said that they were beyond brothers, actually cut from the same cloth. This small village (but not too small, you understand), met each day by the pair's sun-bright laughter, and greeted every night by the map of their giggles, painted in the speckled starscapes of the sky. _

 

_ Until one day, when one of the boys was cut down in battle. _

 

At this point in the story, Lance's friends usually began to fidget, prepubescent bodies betraying their lapse in attention. Not him though, chubby fingers clutching tight to his favorite shell and soothingly tracing its ridges while he gaped at the orator, attention rapt. “What happened?” He would ask—without fail—to the point where many figured the story could not continue without him.

 

His grandmother's eyes would twinkle, missing tooth momentarily kissed by the light of a passing firefly. “Well, my little cherry stem, he mourned.” She took a heaving breath then, pulled from deep within the mountains and returned to it slowly, before continuing her tale.

 

_ It is said the boy cried for seven days and seven nights (though those who did not know him well would swear upon five). Yet as all things must move on, so too did his grief. And as the tears of his pain had nourished the land to sprout new crops, he also began life anew. _

 

_ He tilled the soil with more resolve than half the village, and swam its waters with more skill than many more besides. _

 

_ These lands and waters, infused with the flesh of his other half and nourished with his tears, must have loved him above all, wouldn't you say? _

 

_ The boy lost an integral part of himself, it is true. However, he turned that into sustaining work, and is even now much beloved in the village—now our beautiful town. _

 

Lance knows by now, of course, that this is the end of the story. He has heard it told in myriad ways, from almost as soon as he could walk, until now, cruising through his 17th year. His heart still pauses the moment the boy becomes one who forever must be _missing_ something _._ Not that he necessarily relates. But he might. He could, arguably, statistically. And he still asks, “what happened,” at the same place because some part of him now wonders if the story needs it, too.

 

“Uncle Lance,” a small voice whines, retrieving his attention from the trees and across the churning waters, where it had strayed. “I'm hungry.”

 

His heart pinches at the admission, studying the girl's petite shape—compact and nimble, perfect for climbing trees and enemies. But she is only so small from a lack of nutrition. He crouches down. “I know, fluffy pigeon. But don't you worry, Uncle Lance is going to fix it.”

 

Her eyes are dinner plates, freshly cleared and glistening. “How?”

 

He swallows a smile at her comically loud attempt at a whisper, and speaks hushed in kind (but better, obviously), “I'm going to cross the River of the Dead and bring the life of our crops back.”

 

His grandmother clears her throat, rising to stand imposingly behind him. Her voice is thick with urgency, yet eerily neutral when she asks, “you what?”

 

Pidge, ever the clever girl, scampers off through the drooping trees and back towards the center of town below. Meanwhile he turns to face his grandmother, pleadingly searching her warm hazel eyes. “I've heard the stories. Are they true?”

 

“If they are,” she counters harshly, “will you be able to come back?”

 

They glare at each other and he sees the mirror of his passion reflected in her. But he can't deny that every mention of this particular tale warns that once one crosses the River of Death, they are not likely to return. He breaks eye contact first, reaching for the shell in his pocket and caressing it gently. It might be a gift from his father, but he doesn't remember. “Grandmother,” he begins again, voice huddling in the hollow of bare trees and evening breezes, “maybe that's for the best. I've always felt like the boy in the story, like I don't really belong.”

 

His eyes had slid back to the choppy shadows of the water, so he doesn't know she's approached until he's gasping in surprise. Her strong and weathered arms wrap around his body, catching a surprising amount of him in their comforting embrace. “My precious cherry stem,” she mutters from the groove of his collarbone, “you don't belong here, and you do.”

 

His heart stops, blood pounding in his ears. It is not the answer he expects. Hand shaking in its continuous path over the shell, he kisses the top of her head, blaming the tickle in his throat on the coarse hairs brushing his nose, and not the shaky tears that have sprung to his eyes.

 

Blinking between fireflies and curled into her stooped form, he resolves to leave that night.

 

 

 

  

Lance sticks half a jar of his homemade chestnut paste and a brick of coarse bread (ugly, tasteless, and more than once mistaken for dirt) in his pack as an afterthought. Without lingering, he sets off through town in the dead of night, loping through silent yards as his long legs take him in a beeline for the water. By now, all but the most confused fireflies have turned in to bed, and once he nears the shore he immediately pivots, nearly backwards, into the trees. It takes him a few moments to realize he's not following fireflies at all. He stops, turns, and takes a few steps back the way he'd come as a test. Glancing over his shoulder, a thrill shoots through his middle to see them behind him. They're not fireflies at all.

 

They're will-o-wisps!

 

He must be getting close, and tries not to think about how this possibly one-way trip is filling him more with a buzz of adventure than a mourning for the home he might leave behind. When he resumes his previous direction, thick fog forces him to slacken his pace. It might be hours, or much shorter, but with nothing besides the plodding of his own feet and the hazy pull of the will-o-wisps, he has no sense of time. As soon as he grabs the bread brick to nibble on, suddenly he breaks through the fog onto a pale stretch of shoreline he's never seen. He nearly drops his pack, clumsily catching it before it hits the ground, which is rather good considering his eyes are glued to the water. Halting, he releases a strangled hiss from his lips.

 

There's a rowboat in the water, with a dark-haired stranger standing inside. He turns at Lance's disturbance, arms crossed over his chest and frown deepening at the sight of him. His skin looks ashen against the darkness of his braided tank top and the paleness of the coming sunrise behind him, but that only makes his eyes more striking. From here they're dark, some kind of blue (or maybe purple), and with the good sense of a madman Lance ogles the stranger's toned arms, the pretty slant to his lips.

 

Just, he's very pretty. “A-are you Styx, ferryman on the River to the Underworld?” He coughs out, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

 

“Huh?”

 

How eloquent. “My name's Lance, our crops haven't sprouted in like, months, and I'm having you take me across to get them to come back. Even if I have to fight you first.” He raises his fists for good measure, promptly dropping the bag he'd been so lucky to catch.

 

“What...” He sighs roughly, shoving a hand through his hair while muttering, “this is not what I expected when he said someone was coming.”

 

Lance blinks, intrigued. “Who?”

 

The ghostly morning glow highlights him in profile, hand still rested in his hair. Totally unnecessary. “Shiro, uh, Hades, I guess?”

 

Lance's mouth makes an o shape at the new information. His arms retreat to his sides. “Anyway, you going to take me or what?”

 

He absently scratches his chin. “I mean, I don't see why not.” This time when he looks at Lance, his eyes are almost smoldering, lit from within by something less than natural, brighter than the will-o-wisps that have gathered by the boat. “But you might have to stay. Can't guarantee safe passage back.”

 

Even though he already knew the risk, involuntarily he shivers.  _ Safe _ _ passage from what?  _ He doesn't want to know. “Don't worry, me and the water are old pals. I'll be fine,” is what he says, with a casual hip tilt to match.

 

Silence.

 

“Whatever.” He gestures blandly to the boat. “Get in, Death Wish.”

 

Lance juts his lip out defiantly even as he jogs to the boat. “Hey! That is highly disrespectful. Call me Loved And Nevertheless, Ceaselessly Excellent. Or, Lance.” He stops partway there, going back for the pack when the ferryman shakes his head.

 

“Leave it. You can't take food from one side to the other, everybody knows that.”

 

He begins to feel unsettled, but the last three words were said with such...such... “ _Sass_ much Mr. Ferryman?”

 

“Ew, don't call me that.” Lance tries not to stare when he smirks. “The name's Keith.”

 

“Pleasure's yours, I'm sure.” He holds his hand out from his sitting position across from Keith, who simply looks at it.

 

“You sure you'll be all right? You're kind of...scrawny.”

 

His smile fractures, pulling off to the right. “Yeah, well, that tends to happen when you don't eat.” He glances back towards the town before returning his gaze to Keith. “And we don't all spend our days rowing boats and crafting magical muscles, so less talk and more row, Keithy boy.”

 

He shrinks towards his side of the boat, eyebrows furrowed and mouth caught on a question. “Are all the Living like this?” He asks at last, swiftly pulling them into the water.

 

Lance settles back on his arms, delighting in the pulse of the waves from beneath. He'd meant it when he'd said he and the water were old pals. Some of his earliest memories consisted of him at the waterside, and it gave him a sense of belonging like no other place did. “Nah,” he murmurs, soothed by the movement, “I'm one of a kind.”

 

  

 

 

“Duuuude,” Lance groans, slumping over the side of the boat more with the elongation of his vowel, “aren't we there by now? I'm so bored.” He reaches a hand out towards his reflection, and—

 

“Hey! What'd I say about hands in the water?”

 

He grins. “ _ No hands in the water unless I don't want to keep them _ , I heard you. Just keeping you on your toes.” He wiggles his eyebrows at this.

 

“You're a fool.” Keith is not amused. Psh, his loss, his grandmother and friends love his charming sense of humor. Feeling a crick forming in his neck from the lip of the boat, he rises to a sitting position and studies Keith again. “So.” Keith eyes him warily, leaning away. “Are you like, dead? Or alive?”

 

His eyebrows raise slightly. “Oh, uh, like a little of both?” At Lance's rare silence, he continues, “Honestly I think Shiro said my form is more like a dead thing, in your terms, but—” He opens his mouth wide, and begins to point in towards his throat when he catches Lance's wild, barely-holding-in-a-laugh, expression. He glowers at the floorboards and pulls his knees to his chest with a huff. “Forget it, it's complicated.”

 

“ Wait, are you  _ embarrassed _ ?”

 

“I have a question,” Keith cuts in, training his eyes on Lance again, but with the oddly bright stare from before. “You know you might not be able to come back. So why are you so eager to leave?”

 

He flinches away from the side of the boat, hand shooting for the shell in his pocket. “Cut to the chase, huh? Haha.” With his other hand, he rubs the back of his neck and watches his body's methodical movement over the shell. “It's not that I don't care about it. That's my home, and I've got a lot of friends and some family who love me dearly. And I love them. It's just,” he remembers being four, hearing about the boy who mourned for a week over something irreplaceable that he had lost. “You ever feel like no matter how content you are, you don't _truly_ belong somewhere?” He sneaks a look at Keith and finds him still staring, lips a quiet line with eyes considering and bright. Guess not. “And if this will bring our crops back, it would be worth it. I can't stand to watch the place I love shrivel up and die.”

 

They don't speak for a while after that, murmurs from the water filling up their silence.

 

“We're here.”

 

Lance's head shoots up, and he sees a shore very much like the one they had left, with one noticeable difference. “Why's everything yellow and brown? It's still summer.”

 

Keith gives him a look before saying flatly, “it's dead.”

 

He colors, deeply thankful for the dark tone of his skin.  _ Duh _ . “Well! This has been fun. Thanks for the ride! I'm just going to, uh, go? Find...Shiro? I guess? Yes.”

 

“Wait.” He looks back at Keith, who is still seated in the boat, oars draped lazily in his lap when he continues, “leave the shell you were holding. It seems to be important to you, might help you get back.”

 

Sounds legit. With a minor shudder of hesitance, he leaves the shell in his corner of the boat and turns away from the water. Out here in the eerie silence of the Other shore, he kind of wishes that Keith was still with him. But his duty is the passage, not Lance, so he wades into the tall, brown grass alone. Truth be told, he had NO IDEA how he was going to get the life of their crops back. Heck, he was astounded he'd made it this far. But Lance was nothing if not resourceful, and he figured this Shiro guy was his best bet.

 

 

The dense stalks of grass are frail with dehydration, parting behind his fingers with a whisper that he's sure is spreading throughout the field in all directions. It had definitely been near midday when Keith got him to shore, but with a quick glance up, he finds that he's no longer convinced. The sky is a soft lavender, framed in a circle by the tips of yellowed reeds clawing above him. Lance coughs, ignoring the ache in his belly as he continues to swim in what he hopes is a forward direction. Step and swim, step and swim....the longer he continues this routine the more he glances around him, ears craning to capture something other than the accusatory whispers that mark him as an intruder. He spots a stone, round and black as the fertile soil that continues to sprout nothing back home. He grabs for it wildly, as its the only mark that he's been making any progress. It isn't hot, rather chilly actually, but he stops to wipe some sweat from the line of his brow and take stock of his position. Who knew the Land of the Dead was full of so much fucking dead grass? Finally, it seems to be thinning, off to the right, so Lance absently grips the stone in his hand and heads in that direction.

 

Even with a little more visibility, every direction looks about the same. He curses under his breath, and then stills immediately when a howl sounds not too far from the direction he'd just come. His eyes are blown wide while he racks his brain for what that could possibly be. Do they have wolves in the Land of the Dead? Or worse, _were_ wolves? He hasn't moved when a hulking form bursts from the dense grass, barreling into his shoulder like a freight train and knocking him along the ground. Suddenly he's staring at that soft purple sky, waiting for his breath to come back when he spots two...four glowing eyes peering at him from the first layer of brush. They squint in a moment of warning and he scrambles to his feet just as the beast charges him again, one of its mouths oozing a golden syrup that he probably, definitely does not want anywhere near his body. The open mouth barks harshly while the other offers an amused keen, and he thanks whatever deity for the compulsory self defense that all the town's children took for five years. It charges again and he barely dodges, using his momentum to swing back around. He hurls the rock with all his strength, hitting it clean in one eye. His smirk dies when it roars, sending a quake of air through the reeds and the ground, which shakes him so hard he falls clean on his ass. _Oh god_ , he can't help but think, realizing with pinprick clarity that he has just aggravated this _monster_ and disarmed himself rather spectacularly. He's combing his brain for another plan when an authoritative shout pierces through everything around him.

 

“Zarkon! Heel.”

 

Something in him stills, and even the beast hesitates, snarling meanly before settling on its haunches once more.

 

“ _Zarkon!_ ”

 

The beast whimpers, baring both pairs of teeth at Lance before slinking back into the grass. Lance is still in the dirt, reeling, when a man whose right arm is a blackened and charred excuse for the original slips easily into the clearing before him. His face melts into a warm smile, and he pats the still growling beast's angrier head with that very same charred arm.

 

“There you are,” he begins, voice covering him like billowing smoke. “Sorry about that, Zarkon's manners aren't the best. I thought Hagar would do a better job of reeling him in though,” he pouts at the beast and Lance blinks, thoroughly unable to do anything else.

 

“You're,” his voice is shaking but it works, “you must be Shiro.”

 

“That's right.”

 

“And you knew I was coming...you must know why I'm here!”

Shiro's smile evaporates at that. “Not quite. You seem,” he scratches his face near a rippling gray scar above his nose, “familiar, so I sent Keith to get you. I don't know why though.”

 

Lance's expression sours in disappointment. Keith couldn't warn him about the rabid dog-bat-thing? A conversation for later. “Well, fine, I'll tell you.” He stands, finally, brushing away flakes of dead grass and dirt from his shorts. “My name's Lance. I live in the town across the water. A while ago our crops stopped sprouting—for no reason. I think their spirit or whatever came over here, and I was hoping,” the more he speaks the more ridiculous it sounds, and his voice curls up with doubt, “to get it back?”

 

Shiro's flesh hand is to his chin in thought, and his eyes crinkle up at the corners shortly after Lance completes his explanation. “I think I see what happened here. Well, I'm not sure I can help, but there's nothing to do about it right now.” He tosses the black stone back to Lance, who catches it on instinct. “Eat something, it'll give you strength for the trip back.”

 

Lance frowns at the stone, before turning it on Shiro. “Uh, excuse me?”

 

Shiro stops scratching beneath the closer of the beast's chins (Zarkon?), and looks back at him. “It's a tuber. Go on, you'll have to eat something or you'll never make the trip. I know these things.”

 

“But...go back? Don't I have to do something?”

 

He shrugs. “Sometimes things just need a little kick start or reset, this could be one of those. Like those stories that need cues from the audience to keep going, haven't you ever heard anything like that?”

 

Lance closes his mouth and stares at the man and his beast before him, separated by a clearing of dirt and a chasm of so many other things. He has heard a story like that. He wonders if Shiro knows it too. His stomach complains then, sending a silent pang up through his ribs. He winces.

 

“Go on and eat that, and walk straight to your left, you'll reach the shore before you know it. Make sure you get back in the boat before nightfall, you can't sleep here.” His tone is final. “I've got some other things to attend to. See you when it's time, Lance.” He waves with the flesh hand, resting the charred one on the back of Hagar's head while they disappear back into the thickest portion of the grass.

 

He looks at the round tuber with furrowed brows. Keith said not to eat anything over here. _Keith_. He and Shiro both are from this shore, but Keith felt a lot more like a normal person to him. And that makes him really want to see him. He must've been over here for too long. Crumpling slightly with more stomach pain, he takes a rough chomp of the tuber and grimaces when the bitter, watery gold liquid slips down his throat. Hmph. Keith never told him about the beast, so he makes sure to eat the whole thing, in an act of defiance. He enters the left side of the tall grass, ready to give the ferryman a piece of his mind when he gets back.

 

It's easier to gauge progress this time around, and as the temperature drops and the sky dips towards indigo, he's glad for it. Night comes quickly, here. Fatigue is slowing him down, but soon enough he breaks through the grass, and spies Keith balancing one of the oars on the tip of his finger. He drops it at Lance's sudden appearance and hurriedly dips it into the water to cover his fumble.

 

Good 'ole, semi-dead Keith. He wrestles the smirk off his face. “Didn't expect me back so soon, huh? Thought I'd get eaten by the rabid beast, huh?!”

 

Keith frowns at him, lower lip held just barely by his teeth, before recognition swallows his features. “Oh! The Galra. Sorry about that, I forgot.”

 

He blinks the memory of the bitten lip out of his mind. “You forgot? That your crazy death god has a crazy death beast?”

 

“Hey, Shiro's not crazy.” He bristles.

 

Lance shrugs, hands feeling weighty and useless at his sides, so he stuffs them into his pockets. “Yeah, he does seem like a pretty nice guy. Nicer than expected.” The chills sneak down his spine, and he covers it with a head shake. Damn, is it cold. “He's nicer than you, too.”

 

“Ha ha, very funny. You getting in or what?”

 

The moon is sneaking over the water now, humongous in a way that it should never be in reality. He walks quickly to the boat, remembering Shiro's words, and loses the tension in his shoulders when Keith returns his shell to him. He smiles gratefully.

 

Keith looks away, focusing on getting them out on the water, though Lance is fairly sure he could do it in his sleep. Does he sleep? “I'm uh, glad to see you. Your friends will be happy you made it back.”

 

He stubbornly refuses to make eye contact with Lance, but that won't stop him from gaping from across the boat. “You were worried about me?” He means for it to sound teasing, but the moonlight overhead twists it into something soft. Keith says nothing in return.

 

The trip takes about as long as the first time, but Lance is prone to a lot less fidgeting, and he blames it on fatigue. But when mild shivers overtake him again, he squints at Keith's attire. Slowly, he comments, “I can't believe you're in a tank top. Aren't you cold? Or is that one of the perks of being half-dead?”

 

He ignores the questions and studies Lance critically. “Are you? We've been back in your summer waters for a while now...wait.” He launches an arm out, clasping Lance's forearm with calloused fingers, at which he squeaks. They're not cold. “You're freezing,” he continues, scowling at him.

 

Lance means to talk back, or at least shake out of his fingers, but he's really, really tired and every part of his body feels like tar to move. He blinks lazily at Keith, curves inward towards the moonlight in the boat since things that are light tend to be warm. He hears Keith huff from what sounds like far away, and watches him approach cautiously, as though Lance were an injured animal. He smiles, unable to chuckle. He seems surprisingly delicate, even scowling. How funny.

 

“He fed you something, didn't he?” He asks, more to himself than to Lance, who is hardly listening, openly admiring the reflection of the moon in Keith's dark eyes. He is hovering over Lance now, and after sweeping his eyes all over, he looks him in the eye with a pinched expression. “Sorry about this,” he says as the only warning, before he's pressing ash-soft lips over his own. Lance parts his own in surprise, and Keith inhales before sighing deeply into the open space.

 

It's hot.

 

Lance feels the burning air tickle the roof of his mouth and swallows it down into his throat, before he's blinking rapidly as Keith pulls away. There's a glimpse of something glowing in the back of his throat, pulsing softly like embers at a campfire before the last campers go to sleep. The scalding heat settles deep in his belly, slowly meandering through his limbs until his body temperature finally regulates itself. “Wha...what...what was that?!” He squawks, not nearly as sleepy or cold as before.

 

Keith sighs, eyebrows smoothing out as he scoots back to his side of the boat. “Thank goodness.”

 

“Thank goodness _what_?” He demands, feeling a tingle on his lips that he has an inkling isn't part of the whole hot-air-resuscitation deal.

 

Keith glares at him fiercely. “Didn't I tell you not to eat anything from over there? Why can't you listen to simple instructions?”

 

He blanches. “Well, you didn't even tell me what to expect, so why would I trust your comments over the ACTUAL God of Death's?”

 

Keith makes to retort, only to swallow it with a grimace. “...I guess that's fair.” He points an oar at Lance and continues, “well, you should've been more careful. All he does is deal with dead people all day, you can't trust him like somebody from your side.”

 

“Can I trust you?” Keith looks at him and he squirms. “I mean, you tried to save me. And you're not fully from that side either, you said.”

 

He huffs. “Well, now neither are you. For some reason I was able to give you some Spirit, but whatever you ate is part of you now. You won't fully be part of your side either.”

 

Lance smirks at that, and leans over the boat when he sees the shore for home. He'd never fully felt apart of it anyway. “Thanks, I guess.” When the boat sighs onto the sandy bank, Lance hesitates. “I'm really thankful you took me over, Keith. And you weren't totally horrible company, I guess.” He pauses when Keith snorts. “Will I see you again?”

 

He stops feeling silly when Keith gives him a soft look, quietly responding, “you might.”

 

With that, he hops out of the boat and walks slowly through the trees and back towards town. He does not look back, because he's worried that if he does it will hurt. The walk feels longer without the fireflies to accompany him.

 

The first person he sees is Pidge, or rather, she sees him, dropping out of a nearby tree and onto his shoulders like an especially large pine cone. “Uncle Lance!” She shouts, pounding him with a surprising amount of energy. He chuckles and looks at her, laugh dying on his tongue when he sees her face. “Uncle Lance! Dummy. Where were you?” Her fists are so small, body shaking with emotions too big for her tiny body.

 

He brings her around to his front carefully, and smothers her in a big hug. The guilt sinks into him like a parasite, eating up any good feelings from his trip. How long had he been gone? “I'm sorry Pidge. I was trying to fix it.” Fear grabs his lungs, choking him up for just a moment. The air is cooler, as though they're inching towards Fall. How long _had_ he been gone? “Pidge, have you seen my grandmother? Where's granny?”

 

Her eyes are still hardened with hurt, but she dutifully points out one of the houses on the upwind side of the island, where the breeze is always agreeable and kind. He places her on the ground gently, sweeping across the still blank fields with his eyes as he runs towards the house. The ill often get sent to this side of the island, since the weather is always a bit more fair. He busts through the door to find her sitting on a bed, sunken towards the floor by a force greater than gravity. She immediately perks up upon his arrival, and coaxes her body into an upward motion. Her skin droops more in the face, but her eyes are bright, and he covers the distance to sweep her up into a hug. She's a lot smaller than he remembers. “Grandmother, I'm so sorry. I had to see if I could bring them back, I had to _try_ ,” he's petting her wiry hair as though just a few more strokes will convey the depth of his guilt. He should have been here.

 

Her grip is loose, but her voice is strong when she says, “it's all right, my love. Well? Did you succeed?” When he stops moving, she leans a little out of his embrace, and turns his face towards her.

 

The stretch of dark earth outside the house assaults his mind's eye, making him unable to see anything else. “I don't know,” he wheezes, crippled with doubt. He looks back into her eyes, confused when he sees her smiling. “I just don't know.”

 

“My sweet cherry, have the faith in you that I do. I mean, you even found your other stem.” He doesn't get to ask her what she means, because she swats at him lightly until he releases her, so that she can shuffle back towards the bed. “I am just glad you're safe, that I got to see your face.”

 

“Grandmother—”

 

“Let me sleep,” she commands, eyes as challenging as he remembers. He feels the fond smile coil over his lips, even as tears nudge at his eyes. He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and ignores the shaking in his fingers while he tucks her in. He stays with her during the moonlight's stroll across the window, and places his shell at her collarbone when the quiet of her breath slips into the whisper of the breeze, the creak of the wooden door. When early morning settles over his skin, he frees her from the bed and inches his arms beneath her. She is very light. The haze of dawn shines on the baby spouts blinking out of the soil at him when he passes, and he tells himself not to cry.

 

Thankfully, he runs into no one on his path back to shore, not shocked in the least when Keith looks up at him from the boat. “She would've come on her own,” he says simply.

Lance keeps quiet, setting her down gently and lifting his leg to climb in beside her.

 

“Lance,” Keith says, giving him pause, “you know you can't come. It's only going to hurt.” He says it kindly, which makes Lance frown at the water lapping quietly against the boat. He continues climbing in. “Lance—“

 

“Please, Keith. I'm just going to say goodbye.”

 

Keith's gaze on him is disapproving, but he doesn't say anything more, pulling the boat away from the shore in silence. Lance watches the land get farther and farther away from him, and feels almost comforted by the increasing distance. Just more things he could not hope to keep within his grasp.

 

 

 

 

They reach the Other shore much more quickly this time, and Shiro is there to greet them. Lance watches in shocked silence when his grandmother rises as though from a comfortable slumber, and takes Shiro's hand to amble out of the boat. He looks briefly at the two of them still inside, and tells Lance, “I'm glad you figured out how to reset it,” before he focuses back on his grandmother, speaking to her in soft tones and making her smile.

 

Lance realizes too late that he's running out of time. He grips the side of the boat closest to the shore, rocking it in his hurry. “Grandmother! I,” he looks at her frantically, mouth opening and closing uselessly as he gets his thoughts in order. “I'm sorry that I left. Or that I couldn't get there sooner!” She isn't looking at him, warm eyes turned on Shiro, he smiles at her in kind. “Thank you for everything,” he trails off, unsure what else to say. He hears Shiro ask if she is hungry, and sinks back into the boat when she says that she is. He watches them walk until they disappear into the grass without a second glance, and feels Keith's eyes on him the entire time.

 

He shouldn't have come. Keith was right, again. _So stupid_. But he doesn't cry, turning his face roughly back to the other side, towards home. Keith looks at him a little longer, before quietly angling the boat back the way they'd come. He doesn't say anything for most of the ride, and though Lance can see him fidgeting from his peripheral vision, he is grateful for the silence.

 

When they get back to the shore of the Living, of his town, Keith finally works up the nerve to say something. “You guys seemed really close,” he says, stilted and gripping the ends of his hair with one tense hand, “I'm sure she was glad to have you.”

 

Lance smiles into the trees at the attempt, the expression feeling hollow and foreign on his face. “Now that she's gone, I really don't belong anywhere.”

 

Keith hesitates. “Well, you can 'not really belong anywhere' with me.”

 

He turns to him, the sun shining in his face, forcing him to focus on Keith a little more. “What?”

 

His huff is childish, irritated. He spreads his arms wide, leaving the oars on the floor of the boat. “My whole EXISTENCE is liminal! Half-belonging isn't all that bad.”

 

Lance stares at him for so long he thinks he sees the hint of a blush dusting his cheeks, which cannot possibly be true. A grin floats up onto his face, feeling much more authentic. “I guess you're right.”

 

 

 

 

It has been a while since his grandmother's passing, and Lance takes a break from harvesting to listen in on story time for the children, where they have updated the Tale of Two Boys since he last heard it. He hasn't asked, “what happened” in many years, but the story has continued just fine without his input. The orator is telling an extravagant version of the time a young man brought the spirit of the crops back to the town, and he chuckles when a young girl with nearly silver hair and a death grip on her stuffed animal gasps at the introduction of the God of Death's beast. Rumor has it the protagonist of this story is the very same man who lost his half in the first story, though he rectifies that loss along the way. He rolls his eyes at the thought. Stories really take on a life of their own. He glances down at his hand, sees its ashen complexion and the way it has been slow to react all day, and ducks out of the building. He shivers slightly in the breeze, even though it's summer again, and not cold at all.

 

But he isn't worried. There's a skip in his step that he tries to hide as he wanders through the forest down a path he's made more than a dozen times. He's going to see Keith, get this nasty cold to disappear once more.

 

Sometimes, things just need a reset.

 

 

 


End file.
